


Dissolve me in a storm

by Kat2107



Category: The Musketeers (2014), Ye Heirs of Glory
Genre: Light BDSM, M/M, Porn, this is just plain old porn that doesn't fit in "These Three Remain"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 19:50:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4405229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat2107/pseuds/Kat2107
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boisrenard has been angry for days.<br/>He needs a break.<br/>That's what he has a mate for. </p><p>No real summary: it's sex. Your run of the mill lunch break porn pick-me-up. But trust me... it's good ^^</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dissolve me in a storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kyele](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/gifts), [Eridani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eridani/gifts).
  * Inspired by [And now these three remain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3747583) by [Kat2107](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat2107/pseuds/Kat2107). 



> Apocryphal scene to These Three Remain.  
> I like the scene itself very much, sadly it doesn't really fit into the story  
> (I know I know, there's always a place for BB having sex... but sadly there actually isn't)  
> Takes place during chapter 14, shortly after chapter 13 :)

Fighting had not been enough.

It had taken the edge off momentarily, but the thought of hurt was a brutal tension between them, a trigger shared with the potential to set them ablaze on a moment's notice.

It’s not hard to avoid the others. It's a necessity.

Boisrenard is on razors edge, oozing pain like a man slowly internally bleeding to death.

As long as he stays within a safe space it can be contained.

For a while.

But in the end, pain like this never just goes away.

 

It’s evident in the set of his shoulders, the tendons running up his neck like the ropes that tie the sails on a ship. And this, the thought of sails, of ships, of blood crusting every inch of sickly pale, feverish skin, is almost enough to set off Bernajoux.

He decides it is enough.

 

Behind him the door to their bedroom slams shut, startles Boisrenard into turning around.

No hand is raised in defense, no foot set in fighting stance.

So much trust. Such beautiful, welcoming trust.

 

So easy to hurt. Bernajoux grabs him and slams him against the wall next to the door.

As rare as it is after so much time spend healing, after so much time convincing each other that they are safe, of spreading ointment on wounds of betrayal and degradation….

Sometimes it happens, sometimes they need to fight, need to establish the knowledge of being hurt, of the scars burning in the stillness of night.

And Boisrenard goes, he lets himself be dragged and pushed, until his back is flush against the wall, until Bernajoux’s hand is a vice around his throat, lets himself be forced on tiptoes, eying the other Alpha’s face from dark eyes, sparking with barely controlled fury.

If Boisrenard can’t control himself, and he can’t, not with this, Bernajoux will do it, will establish his God given privilege to exercise power over him.

Only in this, only ever in this.

 

Boisrenard’s hand curls slowly over Bernajoux’s, the touch infinitely gentle, the natural counterpoint to his growl, not muted by the grip on his throat.

 

“Yield!” Bernjoux’s growl mixes with his mate’s and it’s the signal for both of them.

 

As Bernjoux jerks back his arm, releasing the tight hold he has, needs to have, on his strength, Boisrenard goes, half flying, half falling to the floor.

His knees hit the rug in front of the bed and Bernajoux is on him in the blink of an eye.

 

A discarded powder bottle clanks on the floor near the door, no longer held by the belt now in Bernajoux’s hand.

This belt’s leather is soft and supple, worked into shaped and out of shape by years of use.

The edges have been blunted, gentled by almost a decade of holding his weapons.

It now wraps around Boisrenard’s wrist, deftly tied by hands that encounter little active resistance.

It is a rule. One made necessary by their ability to break each other with a loss of control.

Bernjoux presses his knee against his mate’s back, forcing him forward, stretched out on his stomach like a sacrifice to an ancient God.

How fitting the comparison…

“Yield!” Bernajoux growls again, only to be answered with an annoyed huff, thrumming with barely controlled tension. Under him Boisrenard shifts, reaching behind with his one free hand, closing fingers that have worked hard all their life around Bernajoux’s thigh in a painful squeeze that will mark the skin tomorrow.

It is, if nothing else, a plea.

The belt wraps around this wrist, too, and is threaded through the belt buckle.

Not gentle, not soft.

Not followed by an apology as Boisrenard hisses in discomfort.

Bernajoux pulls the leather between both hands and ties it around the broad wrist two more times.

It will hold his mate… barely.

 

Only then do Boisrenard’s shoulders relax a small fraction. Only then does he allow himself a slow, uncomfortable breath and his forehead to rest on the carpet.

“They forced you,” he murmurs, pressing his neck into the hand Bernajoux places there to hold him down.

It is not forceful. Yet.

Maybe it won’t be necessary today.

 

There are rules.

There are things that won’t ever happen in this room or any other they share.

Bernajoux will never hit his mate. He will hold him down, will push his considerable strength into controlling the other Alpha.

He will tie him, he will take him and, when needed, he will choke him.

But he will never restrain his mate to inflict pain.

Now, as Boisrenard bucks under him, Bernajoux reaches for his restraints and twists, just once, and renders his mate’s arms as immobile, as his shoulders and head already are, waiting for the resistance to subside.

“Shhhh, I got you Jaques. Yield,” he gentles the Alpha and notices with surprise that Boisrenard does, that he stills, releasing a shuddering breath before he relaxes.

It won’t last long. Boisrenard is about as submissive as a wild boar, but for now his will bends for his mate.

“I got you,” Bernajoux murmurs as he turns Boisrenard onto his back to lie prone, his strong throat exposed to his mate’s eyes and hands and lips, his body presented like a gift, a tense, angry gift, but wholly Bernajoux’s.

His eyes never leave Boisrenard’s as he slowly unwraps it. Opens the belt, the doublet, pulls free the shirt to expose the scar mapped landscape underneath.

 

Sometimes he barely notices them anymore, sometimes his eyes shift automatically to the rock hard muscles underneath, to the broadness of his body, solid, steady strength.

Not today.

The scars scream their presence as Bernjoux settles over his lover’s hips and peels back layer by layer of clothing, testament of their suffering.

“They forced you,” Boisrenard whispers in the space between them, a broken sound with a wealth of pain.

“They can’t anymore,” is Bernajoux’s answer as his thumb rubs over the jagged scar of a knife cut.

They tortured you, he wants to scream.

They broke your skin and tore you apart and left you a dying, bloody mess, sounds the cry in his mind. He will say nothing.

Bernajoux is good at saying nothing, at keeping silent, subduing his pain to muteness. Because his words had always been worth less than an animal’s, his voice inconsequential.

Like a dying horse’s, driven to collapse and still not heard.

There are rules in this room and any other he shares with his mate.

Boisrenard would never gag him, never force silence on him.

The most he dares is his hand to muffle Bernajoux’s screams.

 

“She tried to force you!”

Staring back from the floor is a creature lost in anger, in pain so intense, the flames of it are almost visible in the frustrated straining of his tied body.

“I was never in any danger. Richelieu never would have let her come near,” Bernajoux whispers, pushing away the last layer of clothing to lift the shirt above Boisrenard’s head to cushion his head.

“Stay still, love,” Bernajoux commands softly, unfastening his mate’s pants, ignoring the Alpha’s seething anger.

There is no pushing through to him like this. He will burn, silently and in pain, will turn over and over in his head the idea of Bernajoux falling victim to those who want to use him. A nightmare more to him than it is to Bernajoux himself.  

He has been used, has been forced and raised like an unwilling ox to whip and chain.

Too familiar to him to hold fear anymore.

But to Boisrenard…

 

It is luxury to know that Boisrenard will ever only know pleasure and care from Bernajoux’s hands, even when they are tightening restraints, chaining him up.

It is privilege to see nothing but trust from those dark eyes, even as they stare up from a body scarred by the most horrible tortures.

Trust that doesn’t waver even now, as Boisrenard lies half naked and exposed, helpless to anything Bernajoux would want to do to him.

It is a blessing to see lips, once cut and bruised, voice broken from screams, open and moist and inviting.

 

“I will fuck you,” Bernqajoux grates and makes quick works of Boisrenard’s pants. “I will fuck you, until you break and beg me to end it for you. Until you forget her name and that she ever existed.”

Growling he hauls his mate up and against his body, grabs his neck and forces their eyes to lock.

“Because she is dead. She will never again hurt anybody.”

“She almost hurt you,” growls Boisrenard, lips pulled back over his teeth, straining against his mate’s grip.

 

Bernajoux lets him go then, releases him to get up, to look down and regard the Alpha in front of him, the defiance in his eyes, the aggression in his snarl.

The horrible scar crossed network on his shoulders is a painful reminder that none of this came from nothing, a reminder of all the people Bernajoux wants to tear apart. A reminder of the people he did tear apart for this Alpha.

The one beautiful blessing Richelieu’s God granted him.

 

“Kneel,” he orders and pulls his own shirt over his head, opens his own pants, eyes set on the defiant visage of his mate as the Alpha struggles onto his knees.

He is as far from yielding to Bernajoux’s wishes as humanly possible, and that is beautiful too, the unbroken defiance that still comes so natural to Boisrenard, that stubborn refusal to give in.

Even as Bernajoux grabs his chin and takes his mouth in a kiss he doesn’t ask permission for.

Even as Boisrenard’s body bucks under his hand as he slides it down over his collarbone to graze a nipple.

 

“Yield!” he whispers, fingers wrapping again around Boisrenard’s throat, holding his head to be kissed, to be ravished.

His mate laughs, a trusting, slightly mad sound, shining with burning arousal.

“Make me,” Boisrenard taunts, a dare, a caress in his voice and underneath, buried under anger and trust and so much love, a request.

 

It would be so easy to fuck him now. To fuck him and make him come and take care of him straight forward.

Boisrenard deserves more.

He deserves to be driven to madness with pleasure, to have the badness driven from his mind. He deserves for Bernajoux to earn his love and devotion.

 

It is that that has Bernajoux tilt back his mate’s head and nip at his neck, perhaps the only thing free of scars, the only violation Bernajoux was able to prevent.

There are days he needs to remind himself that they did not hang him, there is never a day when Boisrenard is not willing to expose his throat to him.

“Do I need to gag you?” Bernajoux asks, as he crouches, sliding his left hand over the hard planes of his mate’s body, “...or will you at least try?”

Dark eyes stare back at him, lips pull into a stubborn curl and Bernajoux gives in to the temptation to lay a hand against Boisrenard’s cheek, to breath a kiss against his lips.

“Good…,”  he murmurs. “Let’s see how long you last.”

It will give the Alpha something to fight against, something to subdue the thoughts of Madame Delorme.

Had Bernajoux known how much that old crone was hurting Boisrenard, he’d rid of her long ago. An unforgivable mistake.

He can’t undo it, can only make it better now.

 

His hand slides from his lover’s cheek to his eyes, caressing his eyelids closed.

He never blindfolds Boisrenard.

Never.

The Alpha hates not being able to see what is happening; does fine, as long as it is his choice.  Bernajoux accepts it as yet another scar, touching on it only ever gently and without hurting.

This will always be a request, a choice that is Boisrenard’s.

One that is much easier for him to make than silence, especially when he is this tense, the violence of his nature this close to the surface.

 

It is in the fine lines around his eyes, it is in the uneasy sit of his shoulders, in the way the muscles around his torso are clenched tight, fighting against the additional discomfort of balled fists. It is in the way his lashes flutter against Bernajoux’s palm, the way his lips open slightly on a final release of breath, the way he wets his lips, almost speaking before a tender tap of Bernajoux’s finger stops him.

“Stop. Thinking!” he commands and is rewarded with Boisrenard’s annoyance.

.

The hard way then.

His hand is at Boisrenard throat again, not yet squeezing, only positioning his head for another punishing kiss, taking what he barely deserves.

He uses the leverage of his hand to turn Boisrenard to face the mirror, dares to, because he knows there will be no resistance.

That in itself is a gift.

Boisrenard’s face, blinded by choice, lifting towards where he knows Bernajoux is, makes it almost unbearable.

He is so damn beautiful.

He is not pretty, his body one formed by a life of hard work. There is nothing lean about the heavy lines of his shoulders and the broad planes of his stomach, all muscles and ridges and scars.

But he is beautiful, as Bernajoux murmurs to him, as he leans forward and clamps his teeth gently around Boisrenard’s left nipple.

He doesn’t wait for his mate’s surprised hiss to subside, before he lavishes the other nipple with kisses and slow circles of his tongue’s tip, until it furls in tightly and Boisrenard’s hiss has given way to a low moan, that just barely doesn’t include encouraging words.

He slowly trails over Boisrenard’s shoulders with his mouth, brushes his lips and tongue over the traces of scars, only breathing over those, he knows are too sensitive.

And he knows them all.

Boisrenard stays silent, a feat in itself, until Bernajoux licks over his palms to wet them and once, just once, runs over the engorged head of Boisrenard’s cock.

Boisrenard’s violent curse rips through the silence loud as a shot.

That is when Bernajoux gets up and gets the gag, a scarf that is innocent enough and usually adorns the mirror.  

“Bernajoux… I swear to God, if you don’t….”

“Shut up! Open your mouth.” His voice is a growl, not fury but hunger coloring his words. Boisrenard is far from being at his rope’s end.

His eyes are screwd shut still, it’s only his big mouth he just can’t control. He knows it, and yet still, he never doesn’t try.

 

When the time comes and his natural need to talk overwhelms him, he always accepts the gag without fuss, as he does now. Opening his lips, bending his head for Bernajoux to tie it.

It’s the only thing he does without fighting against it, sometimes.

“I love you.” Bernajoux’s lips brush his mate’s forehead, recognizing the muffled grumble for the irritated complaint it is.

“No you don’t.” He breaths with a laugh, curling his hand heavily around Boisernarde’s neck, to Boisrenard’s sudden stillness.

A flask of oil sits on the table by the bed.

They both know the sounds of it being opened, the sweet smell of rose scented oil.

Watching, while he pours a healthy amount into his hand, Bernajoux has the pleasure to find his lover’s cock tightening even more at the scent alone.

Boisrenard doesn’t move, his body a perfect depiction of tense anticipation. A display of patience, he decidedly doesn’t usually possess.

Benrajoux works the oil in his right hand, warming it, before he kneels behind his mate and wraps his hand, warm and slick around Boisrenard’s cock.

 

His mate jerks in surprise. Not what he expected then, just as intended.

Bernjoux watches Boisrenard’s broad chest in the mirror rise with quick breaths as he slowly works his mates cock, avoiding any touch to his knot just yet.

 

He will have him, he will feel Boisrenard come apart on his knot.

Soon.

Just a little while longer. He needs the Alpha lose his cool, his rational thought first.

Boisrenard needs to stop thinking about that witch and most of all, most difficult of all, he needs to stop circling back to Bernajoux’s life every five minutes.

 

Bernajoux even promises to not think about the image of a broken body on the floor of a dirty cell in return

He promises to think only of the low keening sound that Boisrenard cries into the gag, the way his body strains upward to push his hips into his hand, of the heavy weight of his mate’s cock sliding through his fingers, the desperate pleasure on Boisrenard’s face.

Greedy bastard that he is.

His hand clamps down on his mate’s hip, holding him in place to Boisrenard’s obvious dismay.

But the Alpha doesn’t open his eyes.

“You’re doing good, Jaques,” Bernajoux croons, slowly stroking up Boisrenard’s cock, to circle only the tip once, his eyes fixed on his mate reflection in the mirror..

“You’re so damn beautiful, Boisrenard.  So incredibly beautiful right now.”

Bernajoux leans forward, pressing against Boisrenard’s back to hold him down.

 

His free hand reaches around to push back his mate’s hair, to calm his frantic breaths.

A second of respite, before the fingers of that same hand clamp down on Boisrenard’s nipple again, only to circle the sensitive flesh right after, to calm the sting, when Boisrenard groans into his gag.

“Shhhh….” Bernajoux gentles his mate and nips at his vulnerable, exposed throat a second later.

He’d rip apart everyone who even dared look at that spot the wrong way.

He himself though, digs his teeth into the skin and suckles in slow, languid motions, in time with his hand strooking Boisrenard’s cock.

His reward is the way his lover turn his head, presenting his life with unhesitating trust… and unrivaled greed... but that’s just Boisrenard.

Under his fingers, Bernajoux can feel the Alpha’s knot swell.

Now he wraps his fingers around it and squeezes, accepting Boisrenard protest, his enraged scream with soft, gentle murmurs into his ear.

“Shhhh… i got you. Trust me, Boisrenard. I am going to make you forget. Promise. Just trust me. Let me take care of you, beautiful. Let me help you.” He presses his lips to the hammering pulse under Boisrenard’s ear and whispers. “Yield.”

 

Boisrenard lashes flutter, only to be screwd shut a second later with a brutal twist of his face, a desperate fight between the need to see and Bernajoux’s wishes.

It’s easy to fold his hands over Boisrenards forehead again, to shade his lovers eyes and pull him into the gentlest kind of blindness, the one brought on by hands that would never hurt.

 

Like stormclouds breaking, Boisrenard’s distress settles.

Not his frustration at denied pleasure, not his need, but the bitterness underneath, the cutting, hurtful taste of failure.

The pain that lurks so close to the surface breaks, like a monster that retreats below the waves, as all of Boisrenard’s senses arrow in on his mate.

A new clarity, as he turns his head into the hand covering his eyes, accepts the darkness with a calm trust that guts Bernajoux.

“Open for me.” Bernajoux murmurs, the words barely out of his mouth as Boisrenard’s body softens.

Bernajoux adds more oil to his hand before stroking his hand down his mate’s cock, just once, only to watch Boisrenard’s reaction,the way his breath catches, the muscles in his stomach ripple in response.

So powerful, yet so giving.

“Beautiful,” he says, to himself and his mate, and strokes his slicked, warm hand down his ass to slide a finger into his lovers body, only to add the second when he is welcomed with a deep, hearty moan.

 

Boisrenard’s body puts up no resistance whatsoever, he is greedy in his openness, hungry in the way his head drops, precariously balancing on his knees to present more of himself.

His scent, salt and water, the smell of cold ocean and crashing waves, softens.

It is one of his idiosyncrasies that his scent changes with love, not sex--

It never happens when he just grabs Bernajoux and fucks them both into a quick release somewhere out in the woods, alone on a mission and not safe to give each other what they truly want.

But here, like this, when he gives everything he is, his strength and his vulnerability, the water becomes much more pronounced, overpowering the sharper salt note, yet never the note he had taken on from Bernajoux.

 

Boisrenard’s body moves slowly against the intruding fingers trying to get leverage, to get more, faster, until Bernajoux has to grip down hard to keep him still.

Scissoring his fingers, Bernajoux eyes him shamelessly in the mirror, each twitch, each pull on his mate’s face, each minute movement, the way he bites down on the gag, the way his neck stretches to find leverage against the helpless position of his shoulders.

He watches his mate’s need writing itself out all over his physical body, and follows it through his scent.

 

“You know, you are facing the mirror, don’t you?,” Bernajoux murmurs to him, slowly finger fucking him to each low shuddering moan, while denying himself the pleasure of even the simplest touch on his own, straining cock.

“I want to watch you, while I take you,” he whispers into Boisrenard’s ear and pulls his hand away to reach behind them and grab a pillow off the bed to shove under the other Alpha’s knees.

“Don’t worry, love,” he adds, guiding the Alphas body down, until head and shoulders rest comfortably on the ground and his ass is presented with shameless abandon to the hunger that Bernajoux managed to keep contain until just about that moment. “I will describe it all to you... as long as you don’t look.”

Boisrenard shudders, he doesn’t move one finger, his fists tightly balled, but his shoulders shake gently, while the scent of his arousal, already permeating each corner of the room, spikes another notch at Bernajoux’s words.

  


Never to mute Bernajoux is Boisrenard’s rule, as much as it’s Bernajoux to never hurt his mate. It’s the need to not do to them, what had been done by others, if only figuratively.

Though for Boisrenard it’s just as well the simple need to hear Bernajoux talk.

He is filthy like that.

“Be good, Jaques.” Bernajoux says now as he slicks his own cock, presses down onto the knot for just a moment, reining in his arousal before he positions himself, both hands firmly on Boisrenard’s hips.

The Alpha couldn’t move, if he tried.

Boisrenard’s fingers grasps helplessly into the air now that Bernajoux is near. They contract into fists, uncurl again, looking for something to hold onto.

His teeth dig deeply into the gag, barely keeping the low keen at bay as Bernajoux breeches the rim to slides into his mate’s body with long slow push.

 

“So fucking beautiful.” He never talks about the scars of lashes and burns that distort Boisrenard’s skin in these moments, when it’s not about those who hurt his mate, but about the Alpha who survived, against all odds, about the beauty of his will and the strength of his incredible heart.

He stretches out, blankets his mate’s back, while rocking in slow, shallow motions, waiting for the first harsh breaths of tension and maybe a small hint of pain to subside.

Only then, as Boisrenard’s body moves under him languidly, as his head tilts back and the lines around his eyes smooth, does Bernajoux move, pulls back and slides back in in one deep motion that has his lover cry out, his body shiver in response.

“So eager…” he croons. “you’re a gift, Boisrenard, you know that, right?”

 

There is no responds, only the way his mate tilts his head, mutely asking for what he needs.

Bernajoux fucks him slowly, deeply for another few strokes, before he wraps his arm around his torso and pulls him up flush against his front.

“I love having you close, while I fuck you. I want to feel you shiver.”

The mirror strung up on the wall is nothing unusual for soldiers needing to look their best when representing their regiment.

They all have their secrets.

They all have things they need.

And if Bernajoux loves watching Boisrenard’s body stretch to accommodate the position, if he loves seeing his darker hands spread over suntanned skin and holding his mate, their bodies moving together, if he loves watching every shred of need, of lust play out on Boisrenard’s face, if he needs to be able to watch his mate, as he wraps a hand around his throat and squeezes until Boisrenard stills against it and molds his neck into that hold… if Bernajoux wants to see his lover’s cock jump at that….

“God, you love that, don’t you?”

If he loves seeing their bodies rock together with Boisrenard willingly helpless under Bernajoux’s control....

 

Bernjoux wraps his second hand around Boisrenard’s cock, stroking once in a long pull from base to tip, rubbing along the knot with a low hum.

Against Bernajoux’s palm, Boisrenard’s Adam’s apple bobs, a wordless sound, a spike in scent, his mate’s rim clenching around his knot.

Not yet.

He rocks slowly against him, deeper with each push, until Boisrenard stills, freezing on Bernajoux’s cock with a low keen, more felt than heard, as Bernajoux finds his most sensitive spot.

“So incredibly beautiful.” Bernajoux licks up Boisrenard’s ear, slowly teasing the skin to his mate’s shuddering delight, rocking against that spot inside him once more, eliciting a desperate gasp. “You need to come, don’t you?”

 

There is no answer, only Boisrenard’s scent that wraps around Bernajoux’s senses as his body clenches on Bernajoux’s cock, rendering him helpless for one blinding second.

“Jesus! Jaques… I got you, easy, love.” Bernajoux presses an open mouthed kiss against his mate’s pulse, so close, so vulnerable, watching each painful flutter of passion on his face as he drives deeply into his body.

Once. Twice. Before he settles into a punishing rhythm in time with Boisrenard’s desperate moans.

Boisrenard’s scent, his distressed arousal, is an assault in Bernajoux’s senses, an invitation hard to resist.

He doesn’t.

He drives his teeth into his mate’s shoulder, when that scen’t spikes, his eyes never leaving the mirror and the sight of Boisrenard’s body pushing back against his, his cock spilling, as Bernajoux grabs his knot and squeezes.

 

It’s only then, that Bernajoux lets go. Release his mate’s neck, to instead wrap his arm around it, not choking, only holding him pliant and willing, lost in the throws of his orgasm, to fuck him, until his knot swells and his mind blanks out.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Bernajoux maneuvres them both down onto the rug, Boisrenard a warm, boneless weight against his body, and pulls a blanket over them from the bed.

“I got you,” he whispers to his mate’s weak smile and the pang of guilt that cuts into his heart as the belt around Boisrenard’s wrists gives way to skin rubbed raw by the leather.

He can’t help the need to sooth over the cold hands, to press kisses against the fingers that curl slowly against his lips.

Boisrenard himself pulls off the gag, spitting a disgusted “bah!” as he throws it with perfect aim onto the washing stand. And then he curls into his mate’s body again, back pressed against Bernajoux’s front with a low, deep sigh.

 

Bernajoux wraps his arm around the Alpha and rests his lips against his neck, breathing deeply the now mellow, warm scent, no longer screaming with distressed emotional pain.

“I never felt unsafe. Never.” he whispers. “Even when she cornered me and tried to force me into a guestroom…” below Bernajoux’s hand Boisrenard stiffens again, head half turned to listen, but Bernajoux shushes him at once.

“That’s why I didn’t say anything. I knew…” he pauses, then adds with more fervor. “I knew, she couldn’t make me do anything.  Because she’d have to go through you first. It didn’t even occur to me to doubt.”

His lips gently touch the angry red bite mark he left on Boisrenard’s shoulder only minutes prior.

“And I knew, Richelieu and Jussac would back us up. Between them and you, I barely managed to take her serious. I’m sorry. I should have…”

This time, it’s Boisrenard who shushes him, reaching back to place a finger against his lips.

“Not once?” he asks and in his eyes is a weird kind of joy, odd with their topic of conversation.

It blooms when Bernajoux shakes his head, confirming his words. Then he laughs.

“Remember that time you thought, Richeliau and Jussac had blackmailed me into working for them?” He touches his lips to Boisrenard’s, his voice dropping to a murmur. “No way in hell would you let that goat near me, love.”

His hand slides up to Boisrenard’s neck, careful now to not impede on his breathing, simply holding him for easier access to his warm, firm lips.

 

For a minute silence stretches, then soft laughter flows form Boisrenard’s chest and he turns his face into his mate’s chest.

“Alright...yeah, alright.”

“And… another important point,” Bernajoux whispers, throwing a leg over Boisrenard’s to pull him closer. “The witch is dead. And Jussac made it count, if I don’t completely misjudge him there.”

“She will never go after anyone again.” Boisrenard relaxes against Bernajoux, his eyes closing with that last bit of tension bleeding away.

Bernajoux watches him, brushing his hair back from his forehead to Boisrenard’s tiny smile.

 

He picks up his hands, one after the other, to press a kiss to the sensitive skin, rubbing over the palm, down to the fingers, only to repeat the kisses on the now tender corners of his mate’s lips.

The anger, the pain and distress are gone from Boisrenard’s scent, leaving nothing but contentment, a warm pleasured afterglow that is a sweet drug in the air.

“You wouldn’t let them hurt you to protect me,” Boisrenard states without heat and Bernajoux, against the low rising annoyance, kisses him again.

“I wouldn’t,” he says and follows it up with a low, startled laugh. “How many times do I have to swear, that I know I’m not alone anymore?”

There is no answer, only Boisrenard’s soft smile, as he settles his head on Bernajoux’s arm and his scent, physical manifestation of the incredible trust he has in his mate.

It’s not so much that Boisrenard is willing to fight the world over the Alpha he, for unfathomable reasons, loves.

It’s that he is able, no matter how hard it may be, to let it go.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Title from: 
> 
> Job 30:22
> 
> "You lift me up to the wind and cause me to ride; And You dissolve me in a storm.


End file.
